Free Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 01 by What Dreams May Come (v1.1)

there.
                 “I’ve
asked about your name, and that gives you the right to wonder about mine,” said
Ensley. “My given name, I mean, Gram.”
                 “Now
that you speak of it, I don’t think that I’ve met with the name of Gram,
either,” replied Thunstone. “Unless it’s a form of Graham.”
                 “No, just Gram. It’s always been Gram. A younger son gets
the name in my family. You see, we’re titled—baronets—and my older brother has
the title, and the manor, up north of here. But I was named Gram, and I got
Chimney Pots and the estate here.”
                “It's an interesting old house/'
Thunstone said. “It must be very old”
                 “Most
parts of it are. Here and there it's been rebuilt over the centuries. Now, here
we come to what the people call Old Thunder."
                 They
had come there indeed. Close at hand, the outline showed as a sort of ditch dug
in the turf, a ditch fully two feet wide and several inches deep and many feet
long on an uneven curve. Pale, chalky soil showed through. Ensley led the way
toward where the men dug with flat shovels. One of them straightened up. It was
Porrask, broad and bearded, wearing wrinkled work clothes.
                 “We've
been at it since after breakfast, sir," he addressed Ensley. “How does it
look?"
                 “First-rate,"
replied Ensley. “You've done well here. Others will take your places in an hour
or so. Any complications?"
                 “Well,
you might call something a complication," said Porrask. “Look up yonder,
sir, where that clump is. That little witch girl, Connie Bailey's there, all
hunkered over, up to something."
                 Ensley
wheeled to look. A hundred yards or so up the slope crouched a little figure in brown, its hands busy.
                 “Why
didn't you tell her she was trespassing?" growled Ensley. “Are you still
sweet on her?"
                 “Well—"
stammered Porrask embarrassedly.
                 “Since
you didn't tell her, I shall."
                 Ensley
strode away purposefully, and Thunstone walked with him.
                 As
they approached, the figure straightened to its feet. It was Constance Bailey,
sure enough. She stood and waited. As they came close, Thunstone saw that her
black hair looked tumbled, her eyes were wide with
apprehension. She held a little sheaf of green stems with yellow flowers, in
hands that trembled.
                 “See
here, my girl, I've had to warn you off my property before this," Ensley
said forbiddingly. “I thought I’d put up signs enough to warn anyone who could
read. I'll ask you to leave at once."
                 “I
didn’t mean any harm, Mr. Ensley," quavered Constance Bailey. “I only came
to pick some of this Saint-John's-wort."
                 She
held out her fistful of gathered plants, as though it might plead for her.
                “You throw that down,” Ensley
snapped.
                 “But
please, it's nothing to harm,” she begged. “It's a good plant, can help
people.”
                 “Throw
it down,” ordered Ensley, more fiercely.
                 She
sighed, and obeyed. The plants fluttered to the ground from her slim hands.
                 “Mr.
Ensley,” she said timidly, “I’m sorry if I did wrong, but could I ask
permission to come back—gather—•”
                 “Yes,
you did wrong,” Ensley broke in. “You've forfeited any right to ask favors from
me. Get off this land, then. You're a trespasser here, and you can be thankful
that I don’t prosecute you. Go on, go away.”
                 “Y-yes, sir.”
                 She
went, her head bowed. Ensley watched and said nothing. Thunstone, too, was
silent until